Torero
by Lifeisforlivingoutloud
Summary: Lovino accompanies his brother to see the famous bullfights of Pamplona during one golden summer, for inspiration for Feliciano's next painting. He's not sure why his brother paints the bulls, he finds himself sketching the matadors. One in particular. Oneshot. Watch out for Lovino's language. Spamano


Torero ~

Lovino accompanies his brother to see the famous bullfights of Pamplona during one golden summer, for inspiration for Feliciano's next painting. He's not sure why his brother paints the bulls, he finds himself sketching the matadors. One in particular. Oneshot. Watch out for Lovino's language.

Always.

_Always_.

Lovino had always felt inferior to his little brother. In cooking, running, art, friendship, love and life_. _There were so many others he could list off the top of his head. He wanted to hate him, but he still loved him. How could he deny his own brother? While people came and people left, his brother was always there for him. So, the years passed, as did the fights, the outings, and over affectionate brotherly love.

Lovino wanted to curse. As he usually did. However, after grudgingly apologizing after a fight, he didn't know where his heart been. It just decided to go and fucking agree on a trip to Spain with his brother. To a bullfight. In Pamplona. So here he was, standing on a train platform in the middle of a God forsaken city in Spain. With his hyperactive brother and his shitload of baggage. All Lovino brought was his jacket, a cap and his sketchpad.

Feliciano had literally brought everything - was that the fucking kitchen sink!? Lovino attempted to kick one of the bags sitting on his foot. To say the least, the passengers boarding the next train did not appreciate the swearing flowing from the foreigner's mouth as he hopped around on one foot, holding his other, judging from their murderous glares. They felt a sense of satisfaction as the Italian fell onto his bottom.

Feliciano laughed good-naturedly, and helped his brother back onto his feet. Lovino grumbled a 'thank you,' and Feliciano knew that was all he would receive. But he was happy with it.

Loud train whistles pierced the air as they departed and arrived into the station, carrying travelers from far and wide. The open-air wooden platforms instilled a nostalgic feeling into the brothers, but the youngest was the only one to say so. The eldest complained about the lack of fucktard baggage carriers. Feliciano smiled, and complied, taking his complaint as a request to find help to carry his luggage. Lovino was left on his ow. For a few moments. Silently, he turned his face upwards, toward the skylights. The warm sun was like melted honey, and Lovino drank it in greedily. He allowed his mind to wander briefly, and his mouth quirked up. If people bothered to read between the lines, perhaps they would be a bit more like Feliciano. Not scatterbrained idiots, but caring, and able to understand that Lovino often meant the opposite of what he said. When he said he never in a million years wanted to visit Spain with his idiot brother in the middle of a sweltering summer, and waste his fucking amazing artistic talents on a bunch of sweaty animals, he really meant that yes, he would love to go to Spain. He couldn't think of a better way to spend a month of their summer break from college with his brother and bond over the excitement of a bullfight, and develop his well... lacking, talent in the arts by capturing the grace of the bulls and the toreros. Bullfighters.

That was the thing. Only wimpy people like his brother would say something like that. People were supposed to get that from his rants. His rants were fucking poetic by the way.

His thoughts were cut short as a grinning Feliciano appeared with a hulking monster. Lovino paled slightly, as Feliciano chatter on and on about the coincidence of meeting someone who could assist them with their bags. The bastard didn't even look Spanish. He was white, and really tall. With blonde hair and blue eyes. The moment he opened his mouth, Lovino knew there was no way he was a Spaniard. In fact that accent... the bastard! He was German! A potato bastard! Lovino narrowed his eyes and began shouting.

A few moments later, and they were all situated in an outdated cab that was quaint and charming. And Lovino mentioned that. But if all the potato bastard understood from his outburst on saying it was rickety and older than fucking dirt, then it was his loss. Feliciano was bouncing up and down in the passenger seat as the stoic bastard drove calmly, leaving Lovino in the backseat to his own devices.

Lovino slumped against the side of the door, face pressed against the cool glass. The countryside zipped swiftly by, the tall grass and blue sky were sickening. It was just too perfect.

...

Apparently, potato bastards couldn't take hints. A week into their vacation, and he was following them all over the city. It was all Feliciano's fault. Who gives a complete stranger the address of their residence for the next four and a half weeks!? He didn't give a fuck if the taxi driver needed it to get to their hotel. He would have withheld the strictly classified information if Feliciano hadn't looked at him with those puppy dog eyes. He was fine with the driver's shouting that he couldn't drive them around the traffic circle one more time. Who gave a flying fuck if they had been driving around a traffic circle on a cobblestone street which made the cab jostle the riders for half an hour in a car the size of his brother's brain? Nobody, that's who.

Lovino groaned. Feliciano bought three tickets in case Lovino lost his, which he _never_ did. So the bastard had a name too, and was coming to the corrida because of the third ticket. Damn it. What a... douchedick! And people said he wasn't creative. He was a fucking creative genius. So they all piled into the German's shitty car and drove to the arena.

Lovino was excited. He could feel the energy of the crowd, as they cheered as a roaring mass. The first matador had defeated the bull. Feliciano was weeping into the bastards shoulder after they killed the it. Lovino felt queasy too, but he wasn't a sobbing baby. Fuck. He was a man, damn it. He grimaced. The second torero was scheduled to arrive. Lovino hoped this one would be more graceful than the first. Hell, the white haired man was as pale as ghost. And as he jumped around like a showoff, the crowd yelled for more. His red eyes gleamed, and Lovino had to give it to him. He had the fire, but he was an arrogant bastard.

So as the crowd sat on the edge of their seat waiting for the picador to finish his job and the main act to enter, Lovino held his breath too. The second torero appeared, and the crowd went wild. The three toreros were apparently the best in Spain, and the Italians had gotten lucky to buy tickets for this day. This one was blonde, and his blue cape would swirl around him whenever he turned. Lovino let out his bated breath, and his eye twitched. He had a rose in his mouth, and the screams from women around the stadium suggested his nature. Lovino's wish was granted. This one was a lot more graceful. He would stand still, and the toro would charge, and he would sidestep him at the last second. The Southern Italian rolled his eyes. Cocky Frenchie.

Lovino gazed at his blank page in his sketchbook. He sighed. He could already imagine his brother's brilliant watercolors and acrylics. He waited for the inevitable _Ole_! as the bull's plans were thwarted and the bullfighter delivered the death blow. He looked away, as the crowd cheered. His fingers itched to draw something, his hand poised with a pencil. He groaned inwardly as the blonde torero bowed, and exited the dirt circle as women threw roses. He almost prayed, third times a charm. Lovino was nodding off as his head slid to rest on his shoulder. The warm sunshine made him sleepy...

The final and third torero must be here... Lovino noted as the crowd went crazy, and he fought to keep his eyes open.

...

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He modest, he was humble, he was the pride of the Spanish nation. Antonio felt the excitement build in his stomach as he took a breath and entered the arena. The sun blinded him for a moment, and he shaded his eyes. He heard the distant cheers of the crowd, and he smiled. The best part was about to begin.

...

The bull entered the arena, and Antonio pulled the orange cape off of his shoulders.

He grinned as the bull charged. He didn't move a muscle as the bull breezed by, feeling the cape flow in the wind created by the sudden action. The crowd cheered, and Antonio scanned the crowd. He noticed his amigo's hermanito in the crowd, and waved. Ludwig waved back with one arm, and Antonio noticed his other arm was busy holding on to a small man. Antonio resisted the urge to fawn over him. He was so cute! His smile was wiped off of his face as he noticed his second companion. He was asleep, but he was breathtaking. Antonio felt his heart jump to his throat, and his breath catch at the sight of him. Chestnut hair, mussed just so, tanned skin, and an adorable scowl etched on his face. Antonio desperately wanted to know what color those eyes were. He frowned slightly, he would never know if he was asleep the whole time! Antonio brightened again. He knew just what to do!

He wheeled around, and faced the bull, trying to get the bull's attention. He waved the cape, and the bull charged. The crowd stomped their feet, and shouted, whistled, and a collective _Ole_! was heard. That had to be loud enough! Antonio wiped his brow, as sweat began to trickle down his forehead. Antonio's face fell as he turned to see the loud yells weren't enough to wake him. He turned to the bull again. Whatever it took!

...

Lovino was roused by a jab in the ribs by a spectator. He was about to curse the high heavens, but they were spared as his brother tapped him. He excitedly pointed at the current match. Lovino would have said something about him, had he not seen the current torero. He was left speechless. His fingers had a mind of their own, as they picked up the pencil that had fallen to the floor, and began to sketch. They flew across the page, struck by inspiration. Finally, a fucking legitimate bullfighter. There was something different about this one. His brown curly hair made Lovino swallow unintentionally. He found himself studying his body, longer than he needed to. O-Only because the human form is hard to sketch, understand! The torero was passionate, and graceful. Lovino frowned. He couldn't quite see his face. He craned his neck in an effort to see, but Lovino knew it was a mistake as soon as he did. His green eyes sparkled, and he could swear they were looking straight at him as the torero effortlessly danced with the bull.

His damned heart wouldn't stop beating like a fucking hummingbird, and he had to grip his pencil tighter as his palm felt moist. And now he was certain, they were making eye contact. Fuckityfuckfuckfuck.

...

Antonio smiled, and bit his lip in an attempt to divert his attention. Otherwise he would swoon! His eyes, ay! His eyes! They were a light hazel, and held so much emotion! The crowd cheered, and Antonio finished his job. He had won.

...

The bullfight was over, and people were streaming through the exits. Lovino grabbed his bag, and hurriedly ran to the entrance. Feliciano ran after him, and dragged him over to the side of the arena, babbling something about meeting Ludwig's brother. The first matador had changed, and was wearing a short-sleeve and jeans with a platinum mop of hair on his head. Was that a... Bird in his hair? Feliciano scampered over, and began to chat with him, smiling like an empty-headed idiot.

Lovino turned, to go wait in the damned car, but spied the third torero with the second, walking towards them with a backpack slung over his shoulder. He was talking animatedly to the blonde, and hadn't spotted him yet.

Fucking hell.

Lovino rushed to hide behind the huge potato bastard, and nearly forgot his supposed hatred for him as he clung to Feliciano and the German.

...

Antonio paused his conversation as he saw the cute boy from before and Gilbert's brother. His heart and mood fell considerably as he noticed the other was not there. He brightened as he saw a brown curl from behind a confused Gilbert shoulder.

He sprinted over to the trio plus one, and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Antonio!"

"Hello Antonio, nice to see you again."

"Hey Tony where have you and Francis been?"

"Ve~ I'm Feliciano!"

"Hey Ludwig! Gilbert I've been changing. Hi Feliciano! You're so cute!"

Lovino burned at the last comment.

Antonio waited a brief second before leaning behind Gilbert.

"What's your name?" Antonio smiled. He was even more adorable in person!

...

Fuck. He was good-looking. Especially in casual clothes. Those skinny jeans should have been illegal. Lovino said nothing, but looked frightened into his eyes. Bad move. Fuckballs. Now he really couldn't move.

...

"You have very pretty eyes!" Antonio prompted. He was right, they were a light hazel.

...

Lovino said the first thing that came to his mind.

"Fuck you!"

His heart crumbled a bit as he hadn't meant that. He was surprised as Antonio laughed, and his heart began beating rapidly again.

His face turned all shades of red as Antonio said, "Sure! When?"

...

Little did he know, in two weeks, he would finally cave in and go on a date with the Spaniard.

In two more weeks, he would extend their vacation for another month. Only so Feliciano could spend more time with Ludwig, understand?!

In two more months time he would be surprised by Antonio in Italy, as his bullfighting season would end. He would jump into his arms as well, and wouldn't let go.

In just one day, he would be glad he had gone to Spain with his brother.

In the years to come, whenever Lovino is upset and crying, Antonio tries whatever he can to get him to stop because he can't stand to see Lovino cry. And on the rare occasion Antonio cries, Lovino does everything he can to get him to stop, because he doesn't know what he would do if Antonio stopped smiling.

Fin

A/N: Thanks for reading! This was inspired by Chayanne's song, torero. Listen to it! And also inspired by the fact that Spain as a matador is just plain sexy. :) Please review!

Thanks!


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